Wait, You're Not All Legitimate, Are You? [Open]

[Simone]

Simone gave a derisive snort. "There's no such thing a legit business on Nar Shadda," she inclined her slightly "Unless you're putting all business under the same title to make yourself sound, well" she gave him a pointed look. "Legit."

"As for me? Something that pays is always good." she smirked. "Not one for getting my hands dirty the same way these thugs do, but i'm prepared to do what's necessary."

Not getting it out of me that easy, sunshine, she thought to herself.

[member="Noxu Za'tire"]

 

[Danger Arceneau]

The settling of [member="Sarge Potteiger"] 's hand over her glass would quell the slight tremble. It took another second to settle herself.

She needed a drink.

"No." she said simply, her words terse. "If he isn't two meters under, I have no idea where he is." that was as truthful as she could relay. With her unsettled as she was, there was no denying she was not lying.

"If you've a keen interest in him -- feel free to search for him." she'd say, starting to move past him. "I've other matters to attend to."

And it had Whyren's name on it.


[member="Noxu Za'tire"]

 

[Noxu Za'tire]

[member="Simone"]

Noxu just laughed slightly as he took another swig of his drink. "There ain't no line between legit and illegitimate work, sweetheart," he replied. "Work is work," he admitted rather plainly. To him, there was no good or bad job. Both types of jobs were just that... jobs. Whatever got the credits was good enough for him. Not unlike a thug, he thought, amused.

"What's necessary, eh? A good way to go 'bout it, in my opinion," he agreed. No matter what job it was, it was always necessary to complete it. Usually, in the line of work of a smuggler, not being able to finish a job put a mark on one's back. So it was always in their own best interest to finish the job to the best of their ability.

Noxu knew that all too well.

"What's your kind of work involve usually? You don't seem like the fightin' type. Maybe, say, more subterfuge? Behind enemy lines? What's your deal?"

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Sarge gave a nod to [member="Danger Arceneau"] and then wrapped himself in shadow again. With nary a sound, he left her to her demons and made his way down towards the bar. He'd start her then fan out. [member="Noxu Za'tire"] was around here somewhere; but if he knew anything, he'd be near a bar.

 

[Simone]

Simone's smile widened.

"My work can involve anything from taking down a targets automated defense systems, to plastering crude images of a politician all over the holonet. So no, I'm not the fighting type." She took a sip of her drink and settled him with a steady gaze.

"Why you so interested? Got something your hiring for or you just scoping to see what available?"

[member="Noxu Za'tire"]

 

[Danger Arceneau]

Danger would weave her way through the crowd. Her purpose; to find a place to be alone. Her mind wasn't right.

Nox was alive.

Nox is alive.

That knot would only grow tighter in her throat. Her mind couldn't help but race. No. After all this time? There was no way. But the Lord Protector would not be wrong. The man had a way about him that she knew would be spot on with his information.

He would not be wrong. [member="Noxu Za'tire"] is alive.

Guests and patrons would attempt to stop her for a discussion, but she would merely smile and say she would return soon; a pressing call to attend.

She needed a drink. She needed space and time alone.

Yet the demons of her past would not allow her to be. With that knowledge, she would disappear into the third story level of the club, leaving the rest of the patrons to their drink and discussion.

 

[Darth Ayra]

| [member="Noxu Za'tire"] | [member="Sarge Potteiger"] | [member="Simone"] | [member="Danger Arceneau"] |

The hooded woman had been watching the bar in the corner, the only motion of lifting the candy tasting, green glowing Gizer Ale to her lips. Her lips smacked in appreciation of the alcohol and candy taste of the drink. It was a far cry from her normal beverages of water, tea or the occasional Corellian wine. You could only get drinks like this on Nar Shaddaa, making Alicia Drey appreciate the criminal underworld just that little bit more.

Her hazel, brown eyes followed Danger Arceneau and Sarge Potteiger as they parted ways. The latter was heading in the direction of Noxu Za'tire and the aquitance he had made. She did not recognise the woman, but in a galaxy full of so many faces, it was easy not to know everyone. Seeing her opportunity, Alicia turned away from corner and headed up towards the stairs that Danger had just disappeared up. Lowering the cowl of her robe as she continued her ascent, Alicia focused on the task at hand.

 

[Jonathon Patches]

[member="Alicia Drey"] [member="Danger Arceneau"] @Simone @Sarge Potteiger


Nar Shaddaa... the mere words always left a bitter taste in his mouth.

It was the bowels of the galaxy, where the filth and garbage, came to congregate. So it was with little surprise that it was here, this place, where one [member="Noxu Za'tire"] decided to paint a bullseye on his back, and gather at the scum of the galaxies favourite crossroad, Nar Shaddaa.

The last time Noxu had tried a stunt like this, it ended with a lot of blaster fire and even more spilled drinks. So call it intuition if you will, but it was an expectation of a similar outcome that had him check the power levels on his blaster twice this morning, and ensure that both flash bangs were securely hidden on his person.

The bright lights and pumping bass of the club were a familiar sight and feeling upon entry. The dance floor and private booths were located at the back - Patches would be certain to avoid that area this time - but patrons seemed to shuffle from the club to the bar and back, depending on their desire for dance, drinks, or more intimate encounters.

The glare of the flashing lights caused Patches to fix his glasses - part of his disguise, along with his hair dyed jet black and stubble lined his jaw a bit longer than usual. Golden contacts hid his usually blue eyes, and two inch lifts in his shoes made him appear a bit taller than usual.

He wanted to remain hidden; not surprising, as life as an Information broker tended to lend itself to a life of secrecy. It made things easier, keeping his clients at a distance; and the not knowing when they were dealing with Patches himself or a "contact" afforded him an extra level of safety... sometimes.

The bar was crowded, patrons lining it in conversation, others clamoring for drinks, and a few, lesser individuals conducting business transactions of the more illicit variety. It didn't take long for Patches to spot his mark - if you didn't consider nearly an hour long that is - as his usual flair and train wreck of a game gave him away. Not obvious to the general public of course, but to those whom had shared a drink or two... or several dozen with the man, it was tough for him to break old habits. Patches had to stifle a smirk from drawing upon his face when he finally realized whom it was.

Using the crowd of patrons wanting drinks as cover, Patches weaved in and out of those ordering drinks, until a light bump, followed by a simple "pardon me," hid the deposit of a small datapad that read "You should have stayed dead." in one Noxu Za'tire's jacket pocket. How long it would take him to realize it was there was anyone's guess. Most people, Patches figured, would notice it in a few minutes. Noxu though... Patches would be lucky if he noticed it before it was on the spin cycle in his washing machine.

It was a burner datapad. Untraceable, and had no other features or functions than relaying the simple text message. Whether it would have it's intended effect was another thing entirely.

Until then, Patches could just sit and wait... and order a drink or two. He had no doubt things would escalate before the night was up; which side he would take though, remained to be seen.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

[member="Noxu Za'tire"] [member="Jonathon Patches"]

Sarge made his way, as intended, down and towards the bar. Normally he'd sniff out his quarry, but that wouldn't do in a place like this. All he'd get here was the scent of ink from body images, the reek of alcohol and the salty aroma that was too many sweat-coated bodies in close proximity. Nope, his nose was worthless here; not that he'd used it for that purpose in a long time.

The bloodhound was long in the tooth, but also a bit atrophied in the legs. But where his usual stalking senses weren't up to snuff, one was; his eyesight. Void black his eyes may be, but that didn't keep him from seeing as well as he'd ever had - and Nox looked like Nox. He weren't no Patches; who, come to think of it, was either doing one of two things right now.

Right up in this, or as far away from it as possible.

Knowing Patches, the latter was the more likely of the two.

Inhaling sharply as he moved in behind Nox and [member="Simone"], there was the faint click of a pistol's hammer locking into a firing position. A gloved hand appeared from what should have been a haze in the air, settling onto Nox's shoulder with a heavy touch. "You should have stayed dead." Drawled a thick Corellian accent, and if Nox were to turn and look he'd find himself staring up into shadow wrapped in a battered tan shemagh.

Who it was, if Nox was able to puzzle that out beyond the generic-sounding-intimidation-attempt-that-was-actually-a-greeting, was made clear a moment or two later. "Where's Kelsee?" Yup, Sarge.

Just who everyone wanted to see; or in this case, not see. The photoreactive fibers of his cloak were having a bit of a struggle to keep up with the flickering lights, but it was doing admirably enough considering the otherwise poor lighting.

 

[Noxu Za'tire]

Noxu smirked at [member="Simone"] for a moment, she was clever. She knew that he had a job available and he needed to hire. Granted, the entire premise for Nox's little venture for creating and 'hosting' - even though it was under an entirely different name - the convention was to get work and to get others to work for him. It was the perfect plan to remain anonymous and get work! No one would know he was there, and he certainly wouldn't get death threats. He was thankful for that.

"I have a job," came the plain reply from Nox to Simone. "Conveniently enough, it requires someone that actually doesn't go 'bout gettin' themselves shot at or shootin' at others," he claimed. Truth be told, none of his work ever required getting shot at or shooting at others; it was smuggling, after all. However, that wasn't how most of his jobs ended up.

While he continued to sip at his drink rather casually he felt something. Years of being on the run from bounty hunters and being paranoid as all hell made him extremely cautious about every bit of himself. He felt that light touch of his pocket and he tensed up for a moment. Once the feeling was gone, he turned around quick to try and catch the culprit in action. Unfortunately, whoever it was was already gone. Too slow. Who in the hell was that? came his paranoid thoughts.

Maybe he wasn't as alone as he'd thought he was.

If the person was trying to go for any form of credits, he'd laugh and help them search as well. His hand went into his coat pocket and he fished around. A datapad? he asked himself mentally. Slipping the pad out from his coat pocket, he took a quick glance at it and read it aloud... which may not have been the smartest move in the galaxy considering the woman was sitting right beside him: "you should have stayed dead".

Confusion was what he felt. Maybe he should have taken more care to hide his return. Nah, you're not that noticeable. 'Sides, whoever it was would've killed you right off if they wanted you dead, he mused. Then came the pistol hammer's audible click behind him. Well, poodoo. Again, he tensed. The hand on his shoulder didn't comfort him whatsoever.

"You should have stayed dead."

"Apparently," came the absolutely witty retort. At this point, it didn't matter to him whether he was about to be shot in the back or not, he just wanted to see the face of the one with the blaster at his back. Turning around slowly, he looked up at the shadow. Well, at least you'll die not knowin', were the pessimistic thoughts that crossed his mind.

"Where's Kelsee?"

It took a few moments. His mind raced with the past, trying to remember such a name. Two years had passed since his last meeting with that woman and last he recalled, they didn't quite end off on good terms. That, however, wasn't the important part of what he was attempting to remember. Who it was that wanted to know where she was, was the important part of the part.

Then, it came to him and he visibly relaxed. "Gods damn, you're ugly," he retorted with a smirk even if he really couldn't see the face of the man before him. Why [member="Sarge Potteiger"] was wearing a large face covering was beyond him, but it wasn't far from the usual. The man always tried to be mysterious or hidden for whatever reason.

"Y'know, if you wanted to leave love notes, you could've at least been a little bit original." Holding up the datapad, he showed it right to Sarge's face. An expert at dodging questions, he was.

[member="Jonathon Patches"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Sarge inhaled sharply, tensing as he remembered the words spoken to him by a Lethan, caught between love and hatred.

"Please stop pointing guns at me."​

Frowning a little beneath the shemagh, he let the hammer return to its resting position and set it back into the holster on his chest. The chameleon cloak shifted, causing the air to shimmer, the thin slit through which his arm was extended giving him the appearance of creating an arm from thin air.

Shrugging his shoulders so the cloak wound up simply hanging down his back, Nox would find Sarge dressed in an unsurprising fashion. Protectorate fatigues, a mottled assortment of browns, blacks and tans, plate carrier festooned with blaster power packs. A knife was lodged in a chest sheath and across from it sat the pistol in a quick release holster. "Don't deflect. I've spent the past.. Force knows how many years dealing with a woman who only knows how to deflect and avoid questions."

Tugging the fabric down, face now visible and lips set in a thin line, he studied [member="Noxu Za'tire"] for several long moments. Judging by the fact he looked like he'd aged ten years since last they met, he probably wasn't lying to the smuggler.

"I didn't put that in there. Someone else knows who you are. Certainly ain't ol' Red up there." He hiked a thumb over his shoulder towards where the VIP had been. "So where is she."

 

[Jonathon Patches]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

From a table in the corner of the bar, alone, Patches watched with a blend of intrigue and a hint of delight, as one of [member="Noxu Za'tire"] 's admirers came forth from the crowd. Patches couldn't hear the words being spoken, and constant passerby made reading lips difficult, but Noxu didn't exactly look at ease.

Now Patches COULD have interjected. Could have stopped events from unfolding that in all likely hood, wouldn't end well. However, Jonathon Patches was many things, but a protagonist he was not. Preferring to work from behind the scenes, pulling an odd string here or there was much more to his liking.

For all he knew, they were long lost friends or water polo teammates. Unlikely, yes, but it made for a way more interesting story in Patches mind than just someone looking to kill Noxu. That was a tired old story that Patches had read one too many times.

So it was with mild surprise and a hint of intrigue that Patches observed, from a corner booth, and ordered a Alderaanian Ale. Out of character yes, but Patches found it best that when trying to remain hidden, you change your habits, like not spending time at the bar itself, hitting on young women and ordering your preferred drink.

Evidently a lesson that one Noxu Za'tire had not learned quite yet.

 

[Noxu Za'tire]

[member="Simone"], [member="Danger Arceneau"], [member="Sarge Potteiger"], [member="Jonathon Patches"]

While Simone seemed to be off in her own little world, even though he clearly offered her a job and was expecting a follow-up, his focus was now on Sarge. His old friend. Actually, less of a friend and more of a somewhat enemy that he could trust to always be a somewhat enemy, but wouldn't kill him unless he did something to deserve it. What the hell kind of relationship was that?

"Don't deflect. I've spent the past.. Force knows how many years dealing with a woman who only knows how to deflect and avoid questions."

"Welcome to the gods damned club," he retorted without malice in his tone. "Can't get a simple damned answer from anyone 'bout anythin'," came the obvious hypocrisy as he still attempted to deflect, but only for a moment longer.

"I didn't put that in there. Someone else knows who you are. Certainly ain't ol' Red up there."

"Well, if it wasn't you and wasn't me... Oh, gods damn it," came the realization. "I don't think we're safe here." At least he was able to point out the obvious. His mind, however, didn't connect the nickname of 'Red' to the owner of the bar for quite a while.

After all, Sarge always made nicknames for people. Or he didn't. Noxu, quite frankly, didn't remember.

"So where is she."

"Hell if I know," came the most honest reply he could counter with. All the while, as he tried to remember just where Kelsee was left at, he couldn't get his mind off just how absurdly terrible Sarge ended up looking. Black eyes. Old. Probably senile, too. A far fetch from what the man used to look and be like. All about answers and business.

Someone probably fethed him over bad. Kid ain't who he used to be, that's for sure...

Just like every-god-damned-one else in the gods-forsaken galaxy....

"Nar Shaddaa -- here, maybe? That was probably last I saw her. I was drinkin' a bit. She was, too. I think..." his eyes rolled from left to right as if trying to find that lost memory somewhere in the caverns of his brain. It wasn't likely. "Can't just jumpstart a memory like that..." he lied.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"I'll explain the story of the woman another time. Or, better yet, ask whoever dropped that in your pocket to tell you the story of the Lord Protector. I'm sure they'll tell you all the propaganda you'll need to know." There was a shake of his head before he pulled his cloak around himself a bit tighter. A gloved hand rose, settling on the head of Nox briefly. "If I wanted to, Nox, and don't mistake me; I would tear the memory from your head in a heartbeat."

He couldn't actually do that.

But hey, Sarge cared enough to actually lie for once.

So there was always that.

Retracting the hand back beneath the cloak, he reached out again a few moments later to pull the hood back up over his head. "If you ever need me for anything, I'll be on Fondor. Until then, have fun not being safe." And with that, he retreated back into the crowds, disappearing almost immediately between the flashing lights and changing people. He'd picked up a large number of skills since last he'd seen Nox.

Maybe one day Nox could show him what he'd learned; if that was anything of substance. Leaving [member="Noxu Za'tire"] behind, Sarge made his way back upstairs, following after [member="Danger Arceneau"] to make sure she knew what was going on in her club. Either way, he was glad for the camo cloak wrapped tightly around him. Near impossible to see him, and that's how he liked it.

 

[ItsChon]

Noxu Za'tire Simone

Lurcano lumbered into Club Ufora, wiping the sleep out of his eyes. He had woken up to the not so pleasent sight of a Gamorrean enforcer kicking him out of the motel that he had passed out in for the night, falling fast asleep in a drunken stupor. Now, after wandering the city for an hour or so wondering where he could spend his last couple credits; he had decided on Ufora. What better place was there? Not like he had much else to do. Maybe he'd go get his ass kicked in a fight club a bit later once he was drunken enough to not feel the pain to badly. That was always good for a couple of credits, eh? He manuevered his way through the crowd of people on the dance floor and immedieatly headed towards the bar. He looked out of place compared to everyone else, but Club Ufora was no stranger to odd looking people; so no one bothered to make a remark on his appearance. He took a seat on one of the bar stools and stared forward dumbly, apparently waiting for something. Only after a few minutes did he realize he had never ordered a drink in the first place. He looked around, blinking his eyes before murming something incoherently. A moment passed before he repeated what he had said, loud enough for people around him to hear this time over the loud music that played throughout the whole club.

Lurcano Car'Dann: "Where the fuck is the damn bartender? Do I have to beg for a drink in this damn place?"

 

[Simone]

[OOC: sorry! got caught up in RL]

Simone smirked slightly. So, there was a job availble, there was nothing in her contract with Khaleel to suggest jobs on the side were a no go. She opened her mouth to respond when the pistol appeared in mid air. Simone blinked slowly, suddenly very aware of how unarmed and unprepared she was for any fight that might happen here. she remained silent, watching the exchange with a curious expression.

She knew that face, everyone with half a brain knew that face, especially since he'd landed himself the rols of Lord Protector. She watched him dissappear beneath the cloak and pursed her lips slightly. "I need a cloak like that" she murmured, before turning her attention back to...what was his name again? Hell if she could remember. She took a sip of her drink, adjusted herself in her chair so she was facing him fully. "So, you were saying something about a job?"

[member="Noxu Za'tire"]

 

[Jonathon Patches]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"] [member="Noxu Za'tire"] [member="Simone"]

Patches could have interjected. He could have stopped the events from transpiring. He could have "saved" Noxu, but that didn't seem pertinent for the time being. After all, he didn't seem in any immediate danger... depending on one's definition of danger, he mused to himself.

However, playing hero didn't exactly agree with Patches. He wasn't a meddler, but rather an observer. That's how he liked to play things, and it certainly helped his business by observing rather than meddling. Not to mention, meddling tended to end in a sometimes severe, sudden case of death; and he didn't have any plans on catching death anytime soon.

So he sat at his booth, alone, observing; and noted a sudden sense of relief as a clocked figure appeared to leave his backside. Jonathon lost sight of the figure in the crowd, and decided it best not to pursue. Instead, he ordered another drink, and merely did what he did best. Observed from afar.