Narrator of The Galactic Alliance
GA OCCUPIED SITH SPACE | NACHE WAYPOST STATION
FOLLOWING THE INVASION OF ZIOST...
WE ALL LIFT TOGETHER
It was darker inside Nache to Meet You than some might have liked –– but that was typical for a weekday. It wasn’t until Thursday or Friday when the ultraviolet lights and isotope beats from Sword of the Jedi band–– a small reminder of home –– were more hype aboard the space station. If the squadrons wanted to revisit tomorrow, they could enjoy the light show. They probably would, given they were resourced to stay in Sith Space until the next attack. But tonight, they could revel in the shadowy façade of the cantina. Especially the special operatives, who were slowly becoming unaccustomed to the light of day, and didn't wish to be seen clearly.
Most of the lighting came from overhead vidscreens playing highlights from Monday’s Nuna-ball game. Others showed exciting maneuvers from the latest Shockboxing match; Salvor King gesturing triumphantly into the cameras.
The reality of the dim interior was to allow the people inside to see newcomers before newcomers could see them. A tactical advantage for these sorts of things. Perhaps it was those decor decisions that resulted in the majority of patronage being The Alliance’s defence force.
An outrageous assemblage of humans mixed freely with alien counterparts. Tentacles, claws, and hands were wrapped around various drinking utensils that varied in size. Conversations were a steady babble of human and alien tongues, all of it indistinguishable. Small snippets might be realized here and there –– most dialogues seemed centred around the recent effects of Ziost.
Did you see the sky? When it curdled real blood-like?
Were there Jedi on your team? They seemed to have lost it.
How long do you think this campaign’ll be?
I want to go home.Who’d you lose?
Additionally, another layer to the noise was a steady stream of rhythmic vibrations coming from speakers that were planted in random corners.
Through the sea of bodies, there was a small knot of rough-looking troopers lounging, drinking and trading stories over hands of cards. Members of the Mightnight Company who'd drunk enough to possibly forget the collision with the dark Emperor outside the Citadel. A spine-quaking laugh erupted from the circle, and brawny arms stretched out to collect stacks of chips in the centre of the table. The large player drew his winnings in towards his chest with a triumphant grin.
“If you played as well as you shot you wouldn’n’ta lost that hand, Snipes.”
“Hey man, you never let the brawn lose.” The loser shrugged while the victor claimed his spoils. Letting the conversation stagnate and the next round of cards be dealt, the sniper of Midnight Squadron –– Finon Nalle –– glanced through the crowd at the shadowed patrons. "S'just fact."
His jovial tone took a turn for something more sombre and reflective, thumbing through his hand of playing cards. It took him a moment to speak and get past the sob that threatened to overtake his dialogue. “I miss her.”
Major Tom knew exactly who the sharp-shooter was referring to. “Me too.” Placing two pieces down on the table, he hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “She never just let me win.
Check your hand.”