MacTavish
The Fist of Nar Shaddaa
Thirty years...
...30 years.
Thirty years ago on this very day, MacTavish was born on Corellia. Thirty years ago his mother gave life to someone, gave the ability to reach unlimited potential, or at the very least the ability to be happy. Yet here MacTavish sat, on his ass, in a bar on the lowest level of Nar Shaddaa, wallowing and drinking the swill with the other lowlives this planet. In all of his thirty years he had yet to meet someone worth knowing from Nar Shaddaa.
Thirty years was not considered a long time among the Epicanthix, which his mother was, however it was around a third of his human father's life expectancy. Being born of both bloods, MacTavish felt himself in a constant struggle with time. Would he live those extra thirty to forty years? Would it even matter if he did? On either side, however, thirty years was supposed to be the mark when you started getting your life together and planning for your children and your family. MacTavish realized he had neither of those things, so he took a sip of his whisky, biting back the bitterness with his own.
"Are you going to have another?" Asked a cautious voice from across the bar. Guther had been more than patient with the drunk brute at this point. Still he feared what Mac's next move was going to be.
"I haven't told you to stop pouring have I?"
"Another one it is, sir." Guther grabbed the empty glass in front of him and shakily poured another few ounces of fiery liquid inside sliding it back across the bar.
MacTavish quickly shot it back. He was one step closer to being drunk enough, and another few minutes farther into his thirtieth year in this wretched galaxy. "I'll go outside to smoke this time." He said with a respectful nod, throwing his tattered tan raincoat over his oversized shoulders. He grabbed a deathstick from his pack and placed it between his lips before scooting his chair in and making his way to the deck. He made sure to step over the unconscious body of the security guard who tried to tell him he had to smoke outside last time he lit up.
"Really sorry about Randy by the way, but you know how birthdays are."
The bartender sheepishly waved to show he wasn't going to argue with the mercenary.
...30 years.
Thirty years ago on this very day, MacTavish was born on Corellia. Thirty years ago his mother gave life to someone, gave the ability to reach unlimited potential, or at the very least the ability to be happy. Yet here MacTavish sat, on his ass, in a bar on the lowest level of Nar Shaddaa, wallowing and drinking the swill with the other lowlives this planet. In all of his thirty years he had yet to meet someone worth knowing from Nar Shaddaa.
Thirty years was not considered a long time among the Epicanthix, which his mother was, however it was around a third of his human father's life expectancy. Being born of both bloods, MacTavish felt himself in a constant struggle with time. Would he live those extra thirty to forty years? Would it even matter if he did? On either side, however, thirty years was supposed to be the mark when you started getting your life together and planning for your children and your family. MacTavish realized he had neither of those things, so he took a sip of his whisky, biting back the bitterness with his own.
"Are you going to have another?" Asked a cautious voice from across the bar. Guther had been more than patient with the drunk brute at this point. Still he feared what Mac's next move was going to be.
"I haven't told you to stop pouring have I?"
"Another one it is, sir." Guther grabbed the empty glass in front of him and shakily poured another few ounces of fiery liquid inside sliding it back across the bar.
MacTavish quickly shot it back. He was one step closer to being drunk enough, and another few minutes farther into his thirtieth year in this wretched galaxy. "I'll go outside to smoke this time." He said with a respectful nod, throwing his tattered tan raincoat over his oversized shoulders. He grabbed a deathstick from his pack and placed it between his lips before scooting his chair in and making his way to the deck. He made sure to step over the unconscious body of the security guard who tried to tell him he had to smoke outside last time he lit up.
"Really sorry about Randy by the way, but you know how birthdays are."
The bartender sheepishly waved to show he wasn't going to argue with the mercenary.
