Jay Mayhem
It catered to just about anything and everything, really, functioning as a waystation for others.
A port to park a starship in, take to rest, for shopping, lodging, before guests go and embark.
Whether their venture was close or far, or even if they’re a resident, it was a place to transfer.
Even if the exchange was merely in spirit, and the spirit was in spirits, like at a bar for drinks.
That’s where one visitor was. She wasn’t a resident. She was just passing through this place.
Maiden Mead. She pursed her lips at it as she sipped on whiskey, neat, gave the bar her gaze.
An establishment beside the port, mainly for patrons coming or going, or whatever the need.
Plenty came through like other space stations too. Maiden. Mead. The name's a bit fancy.
The lady liked it, naturally. A name for a starship, really. She licked her lips at the counter.
Dressed in a tan leather jacket, blue jeans, white sneakers; hand on glass, other on knee.
It was bouncing up and down but she wasn’t nervous. Twitch more than tic as she turned.
A shout from behind. Great. Space racers. A rowdy bunch, maybe in a club, from their race.
One had taken place in this sector, less lethal than a game of Huttball, but death did play.
It was easy to crash if you weren’t paying attention. Then again, the woman lost interest.
Dr. Jayrenel Metrum. She turned her head back to the counter and she craned her neck.
There was no need to check the weather on Maiden Mead, but the news showed misery.
She clicked her teeth. Pirates had raided a nearby cruiser, sparing no one. Kriffing beasts.
“Want another one?” The bartender asked her. “Sure.” She tapped her glass with a finger.
It was half-empty. Or is it half-full? That was a mystery of which she did not care to linger.
Again, Jay turned, first to the left. There’s a Bothan on the stool beside her, watching sports.
To her right was an empty stool, made vacant by an Ithorian who’d left it for another setting.
Folks were always moving to and fro amid a space station. Yonder, gamblers were betting.
Arms raised. Winner. Some won the game. But too many lose. Jay turned toward the door.
Her gaze was roving, searching without purpose, exploring, like a lost fish in a vast ocean.
She had time to kill. She was a doctor on duty as much as off, wasting her time at the bar.
Her ship, Hawthorn, was docked for a short walk. She had arrived just this night—in part.
Day, night, time was much the same in space. Her eyes went wide toward an explosion.
Alarms blared in an instant, yet the boom had not rocked this cantina.
The cacophony was close; sounded like the roar of war or an arena.
An accident, perhaps, but Jay was too busy leaping off of her seat.
An attack? Her breath was a test as her heart leapt, taking to feet.
Moments later and reports flew in about the sudden commotion..
If a bomb had gone off it was at least limited to one compartment.
A room, a tailor’s shop, whose occupants were wounded or dead.
On purpose or an accident, Jay had another concern. “I’m a medic.”
She told the bartender. “A doctor. Let security know I am on the way.”
She didn’t wait for his response as she paid her tab and walked away.
The tailor’s wasn’t far. Jay always came with her purse with its gadgets.
Lipstick, medical equipment. She would flash her badge at the entrance.
Iris Arani
