Maur tuned out the inane drivel behind her after the "gambit" had been explained. She snorted; more like a con. Any fool that fell for that kind of obvious scam deserved to be taken for all they were worth. Honestly, as long as there was stupid, conmen would be a plague upon the galaxy. Maur took a long draught of the first lomin ale, finishing it off, and scrolled through her datapad. Seemed jobs were getting harder and harder to come by.
"But I'll do whatever I'm paid to do, by whoever's paying me to do it. Mostly that ends up being either piloting gigs, or..."
Her ears twitched backwards as the conversation suddenly became interesting again. The woman droned on again but Maur mulled over the little bit she had caught. A modest and direct answer with a meaningful omission at the end. Likely using body language to convey what else she did. With the gambit, Maur's first guess would have been a prostitute but that first sentence seemed so . . . mercenary. And a mercenary pulling a con is dangerous. There was no way for her to nonchalantly turn around and poke her head over the booth looking for the heat this merc was sure to be packing. And she couldn't just ask for a
multitude of reasons. But conveniently, Maur realized the refresher was needed. She could see who the merc's drinking "buddy" was on the way out, and size up the merc on her way back.
The sap being conned looked no older than a kit undergoing his coming of age trial. More naked than a newborn, his skin was fair in contrast to the dark mane on top of his skull. Simple, casual attire. Not a thug or someone who would look for any kind of trouble as some misplaced definition of "fun." And that was all she could see as she walked past. Maur was in the refresher less than a minute: they were, perhaps, the most dangerous place inside a cantina. The merc looked . . . mildly disappointing. Small, frail, with a baby face that would have put the sap to shame were it not for the dark bruises. Body language was both casual and cagey. Too much emphasis on
looking relaxed and not
being relaxed. Maur had been about to dismiss the child—really, that
couldn't be a full-grown female—but a gleam in the low-light caught her attention. Hiding in plain sight, a sniper rifle leaned against the rucksack next to the merc with all the relaxed grace the merc herself didn't have. Even with a glance, Maur could tell that scope was fit to kill and kill it had. But snipers like that were a merc's long-distance comm-call. If she didn't have anything for close range, it was likely the female would not ever be a problem for Maur.
As she came to her booth, the hair on the nape of her neck bristled fiercely and she flattened her ears. An Arkanian brat—the white hair and eyes gave it away, not to mention the
poodoo-eating grin on his karking face—lounged in
her seat, chugging
her ale. He slammed the mug down on the table with a forced "ah" and swung his feet up on the booth, leaning back against the wall with a wider grin.
"Finders keepers," he said.
Maur narrowed her eyes and gripped his ankle. With a heave, she pulled him from the booth and flung him into an empty table. The boy bounced off the side and crumpled to the ground, curled up in pain. Silently, she fished around in his pockets for his credit chits. These she took over to the bar and slammed down on the counter, making a peculiarly shaped nut jump. She held up four fingers and walked back to the booth, kicking the brat on her way. He staggered to his feet as she sat down, face contorted with something like rage. And a tantrum.
"You'll pay for this," he said but his words lacked power.
Maur raised a single digit from a fist at him, using a universally understood sign. The idiot limped out of the bar as fast as he could and Maur sat back in the booth. He'd be back, with friends no doubt. Maur intended to get her money's worth before then.
