| abstract | - The spaceport is a picture of busyness. Cargo droids and species of various shapes and sizes hustle and bustle about their daily business. Everything is a picture of mid-day activity. Except for outside the customs office. That is where people stand and wait. And wait. Barnacle Bill is standing in line, as he has been for most of the day. It inches forward, and he is nearing the front. Hopefully the captain will return soon. Last Bill had seen, he had been tending to the important business of sitting on a bench nearby while the first mate had been left to stand waiting. It isn't uncommon for Senator Marx to be seen around the spaceport. She has a ship to tend to, after all, and it's fun to surprise the customs agents of her planet with her presence. As she makes her way towards customs from the MagLev station, she is accompanied by two individuals - one, a female twi'lek marine, and the other, a tall, broad-shouldered man in the blue armor and robes of the Senate Guard. They're chatting as they walk, and the starport is busy enough that Del hasn't noticed her old acquaintance in the line. Not yet. Some huffing, puffing and not-so-muttered curses can be heard from the direction of the aforementioned bench that the captain had been gracing up until a few moments ago. These somewhat unsettling noises can be attributed to the fact that he's just now decided to try and hoist himself up. It seems to be quite a process; first, he reaches down and pulls out his wooden leg a little way from the bench, then he puts one hand on his knee and the other on the arm rest, and he then gives a great push, like he's launching himself into a standing position. For a moment, he teeters as though on the brink of coming crashing down once again, but putting an arm out seems to steady him, and he lets out a loud whoop of triumph. "That's it, me hearty!" he says, patting the wooden leg, "Don't ye be failin' ol' Jack, now." He begins to clomp his way over to where his first mate is waiting, looking somewhat affronted. "Bill! Blast ye, ye were standing in this same spot last time! Why haven't ye moved, eh?" While it's certainly not uncommon or surprising to see a Marine wandering around the spaceport, especially with a Senator to help keep watch over, this one is notable for several reasons. First and foremost, the twi'lek is a scant five feet tall as the trots along next to Del and her Senate Guard. Second, unlike most Marines patrolling the port, Wrista is not particularly heavily-armed, with only a shord, curved sword sheathed sideways at the back of her hip, and a combat knife strapped to her boot in evidence, not really standard Marine fare by any means. And finally, she's got a bright, sunny grins as she chats with the pair, a stick of what looks to be concentrated, hardened sugar, not unlike a candycane, hanging from her mouth like most marines would carry a cigarra. Quite abruptly, the sharp-eyed Scout points at the salty dogs, making a comment towards Del that ends in a short laugh. It's not every day one sees a pair like this, after all. they look not unlike they've stepped off a holo. Barnacle Bill looks indignant at the reprimand from his captain, "Arrr, they keep closing the windows!" he argues, his arm sweeping out to point at the three shuttered windows, with one beleaguered woman left to fend with the long line of waiting patrons. The other windows have signs that say, "Next Window Please" neatly placed in front of the closed shutter. "Bill be needin' a drink. Twould even take water at this point, me so parched." Complaining, he looks around the starport for a roving vendor (not that he had any money), and as he does, he notices a marine gesturing towards him, as if she were reading his mind about stealing something to drink. He quickly turns around and faces the front of the line very seriously. Del pauses when the familiar voice of Salty Jack makes it to her ears, just as Wrista is pointing the pair out, and the expression that crosses her face is an odd one. "Ardin," she says slowly, glancing to the Senate Guard, "Do me a favor and become deaf for the next... ten, fifteen minutes or so?" The guard eyes her oddly, but nods. "Thank you, Ardin." She glances to Wrista before she starts in Jack and Bill's direction, lifting a hand to wave. She should dread getting their attention, honestly, but.. ah well. "Never thought I'd see you gents again!" Rummaging around in one of his pockets, Jack laughs triumphantly as he comes up with a small piece of something glittering. Perhaps a doubloon or something of that sort. Flipping it at Bill, he says, "There, ye complainin' lump o' seaweed. Get yerself somethin' but make sure it isn't that swill ye came up with last time. Ye know that it made ye ill." He cranes his neck to see the windows, then emits a sound somewhat like a growl as he apparently reads the signs. He looks about ready to start walking toward them, which would surely spell disaster for all involved, but just then, luckily for the employees, Del's wave catches his attention. He turns, and blinks for a moment as he seems to be unable to place her...all those humans look alike, honestly. But then, however, he smiles, and the deep blue orbs light up with genuine warmth as he says, "Ahoy, lass! Speakin' as we were o' drinks, though none could match the fine ale that ye were so kind ter give us at yer establishment." Wrista just flashes the guard a brilliant grin, knowing the man must be accustomed to putting up with all sorts of things like this from Del. But she's only mildly sympathetic, really. It's the guy's job, and he'll have to do it, just like she's got her own that doesn't always involve things she's happy about. She lets Del handle the greeting, her crimson eyes roving the pair, cataloguing details quietly in the fashion Scouts usually do, shough she gives them both a warm smile and a polite nod of greeting, even while her gaze looks for out of place things. She's not interested in confiscating hidden weapons or anything, but she's in the habit of knowing about them. Barnacle Bill catches the coin thrown to him, "Arr, I cannot be blamed if ye have a weak stomach!" he mutters to his companion, trying to keep a low profile. But as they are approached, and addressed, and do not seem to be being arrested at this time, Bill turns back around. "Ah, tavern wench!" he exclaims, recognizing Del immediately and tossing the credit in her general direction. "Fetch me a Corellian ale!" "Still have that silver tongue, I see," Del muses in response to Jack, drawing her ID from her robe once she reaches a customs window. A quick swipe of the card and a moment taken to show the DL-44 concealed inside her vest and she passes into the starport proper, lifting a hand to catch the coin tossed in her direction. "I'm retired, sweetheart," she replies patiently, coming up to the pair and offering the credit back to Bill. "But I can direct you towards some decent pubs in town. The Cat's Claw is probably up your alley." As the Senate Guard eyes Bill with a very suspicious eye, temporarily deaf or no, Del turns to Jack and tilts her head curiously. "What brings you two out here, anyway?" The Mon Cal's flippant gesture elicits a hearty backhanded smack from his companion on the shoulder, though it's almost casual, as though it's not a rare occurrence. "Bill, shut yer trap and mind yer manners, if ye have any left!" He turns back to Del, sighing but not bothering to excuse Bill's behavior; after all, Del's experienced much worse from him. Instead, his tentacles droop sadly as he says, "Aye, if only we could get outta this blasted spaceport! 'Tis a terrible story, lass, terrible...a tragedy. Our ship was consumed by a great space monster!" He raises a fist, "Curse it through all the nine watery hells and back, and may it know all the fury o' the Great Seafarer! We were travellin' from Dac ter Nar, tryin' ter get some business done, when it hooked us outta hyperspace with its great long arm! 'Tis a gruesome beast," he continues, shuddering as though he cannot bear to think about it, "enough ter strike fear into me 'eart. Me, what met the Dread Pirate Threeptree in single combat! We only just escaped wi' our lives, and wi'out identification, nor anythin' else. We lost...everythin', lass, everythin'." He gives a great sniff, wiping a tentacle under his eye, presumably to catch a tear threatening to fall. "Now we've got ter get new identification afore we c'n set foot on this planet, but this blasted place keeps a squid waiting 'til the Day o' Reckonin'!" Wrista, having been stationed in the Starport for duty many times, and dressed for obvious duty as she is, simply waits for Del to pass through, and then gives the customs agent a smile and a wave as she blithely steps through without holding up the line for a scan. She fires Del a *completely* amused grin as Bill addresses her so, an eyebrow raised as if to suggest she'll be demanding this story and teasing Del about it at length later. She doesn't stay entirely silent, though, murmuring "Tavern wench," is a quietly amused, aristocratic Coruscanti accent that sounds much like Del's, though overlaid with silvery tones in places. though, at Jack's tale, her eyes widen somewhat, in a mild bit of disbelief. It could easily mean she's taken in by the story... though the way her lekku curl, someone sufficiently familiar with twi'lek body language would correctly assume that she's wondering if Jack is for real, as she glances sideways towards Del, ostensibly to see what Del thinks of it all. Particularly the last part. "Bureaucracy," she muses, but it sounds like an epithet. Bill takes his credit chip back, looking disappointed and muttering a quiet, "Arrr." This is not to be confused with an apology, just sadness that he will not be getting a drink. His sadness only seems to deepen as Salty Jack tells their tale. "Twas awful," the calamari agrees, shoving his hand into his pocket. "The creature's great tentacles wrapped 'round the Freedom Fish and started to squeeze and squeeze! The noises ‘twere enough to wake the dead from the bottom of the sea! And me and Jack, we made it into an escape pod, but our precious Polly...." He simply trails off and shakes his head sadly, sniffing once. "We were lucky enough to make it to Tatooine in the pod, but the Dune Sea be no sea for seafarin' pirates! ‘Twere a nightmare, so here we be." Del is pointedly ignoring the looks and comments from Wrista, thank you very much, instead focusing on the tale relayed by the two.. uh.. gentlemen. "Every spacer worth their salt has heard tales, but evidence is hard to come by," she muses, mostly for the twi'lek's benefit. She's a land lubber. Del brings a hand up to thoughtfully scratch her chin, casting a sidelong look towards the customs windows. "Getting you two legal here could be difficult, gents. Pirates, after all," she observes, inclining her head to Bill and folding her arms as she thinks. "This place is a lot different than Tatooine or Nar Shaddaa... fistfights actually get you in trouble. /If/ you two will behave, though, I might have a proposition for ya." "Aye, lass," Jack says, nodding in Wrista's direction at her last statement, "It be enough ter drive an old sea dog like me stark ravin' mad. If bein' away from the sea don't do it first." As Del speaks, though, he turns back to her, and though there's still a hint of melancholy in his face, he chuckles at Del's comment, and says, "Now, lass, when've ye known ol' Salty Jack and Barnacle Bill no ter behave themselves?" There's a bit of that old saucy twinkle in his eye, but then he continues, "What be this proposition ye speak of? We're certainly willin' ter hear it, that's fer true and certain." Wordlessly, in response to Bill's disheartened piratical... outpouring, Wrista reaches to the portion of her equipment harness that circles her hip, removing a largish flask from her hip, and offers it to the poor, thirsty pirate. "It's probably not up to your standards, but it's wet," she says sympathetically. "They don't really care so much about taste in the service as they do effectiveness." But it's not that bad. Standard concoction of water, enhanced with a generalized assortment of sugars and electrolytes and the like that most species share needs for. Wrista favors the slightly citrus-flavored variety, of the limited and barely differentiated choices the Marines have to offer, but it's so lightly flavored that it still mostly comes off as bland-but-effective. That's the military aesthetic for you. Bland but effective. Bill seems to perk up a little bit and a lecherous look creeps into his eyes. "Be the proposition be involving ye and yer friend here?" he asks, wiggling his eyebrows. For a moment, the grief about the Freedom Fish and dear, dear Polly are all but forgotten. If possible, he perks up even further as he is offered the flask. He eagerly unscrews it and tips it back, emptying the contents into his throat. His look of delight, however, turns into one of disgust, and he looks as if he is about to spit it out. Thinking better of it, as it might make Del reconsider her "proposition" he forces himself to swallow. "Arrr, thank ye," he says, as if he means quite the opposite. Del wordlessly eyes Bill for a moment before she looks to Jack again, leaning forward and arching an eyebrow at him. "Have you ever considered 'privateer' as a career choice?" she asks lightly, smiling roguishly at the Quarren and spreading her hands. "I'd need to discuss it with some people, but I might be able to swing something. You wouldn't get to keep the booty - I understand if that's a dealbreaker - but you'd be paid well enough that you probably wouldn't miss it. In the meantime, though," she muses, straightening up and fishing a datapad from a pouch on her belt, "I'll just get you two a pair of temporary IDs to get you through customs. Just head to the government complex through Organa Park to apply for permanent ones before you leave." Jack looks about to smack Bill again, as his hand starts to twitch in anticipation. However, as soon as Del speaks again, he decides that ignoring is the best option, and instead focuses all his attention on her. His eyes narrow slightly, his expression thoughtful. "A privateer..." his gaze flickers past the woman momentarily as though he's entered into a lovely daydream...a daydream of plunder and marauding and many many lovely wenches. After a moment, he says, "And who, exactly, would we be answerin' to, lass?" This seems mightily important to him. "It's not very good, I know. But it does the job," Wrista says in a commiserating tone, catching and agreeing with Bill's actual intent, and she grins wryly. "On duty and all-- they don't let us wander around with anything more interesting in the flask." Not that she drinks, or has any real problem knocking down the flask, but Marines have a tradition of complaining about standard-issue rationing, and it'd be a shame to buck tradition. As for Bill's lecherousness... she's a twi'lek, she's more than used to a lot worse than that. And she's a Marine, so it's probably a fair bet she can take care of the cases when she actually cares to feel affronted by such behaviour. But it'll take a lot more than a leer and a suggestive word or three, so she simply takes the flask back when it's passed back, gives the rim a surreptitious wipe of her sleeve in a habitual, trained motion, caps, and clips it back to her hip. "Bill thinks it sounds like a grand idea!" the pirate says excitedly. It would mean another ship, at least, as there was no way they could currently afford one. Granted, they could always pirate one, but that was a lot of work! "Would ye be willing to spare this one for our crew?" he asks, moving to put his arm around Wrista. "She would make a fine cabin attendant for old Bill!" "That, I'd need to look into," Del replies honestly, lips pursing as she thoughtfully regards Jack. "I'd /expect/ you would answer to the government, considering, which would see you answering to myself and some colleagues of mine," she says after a moment, nodding to herself. "The Ministry of Defense seems most probable. I'll have to ask around, see what we could do for you. You'd need a ship, I gather." The last, she says with a grim sort of sympathy, drumming her fingers against her chin and looking down at her boots as she thinks. Or.. starts to, anyway. Bill has a way of demanding attention. Del's eyes flick up to peer at him, but curiously, she doesn't say anything, simply giving the twi'lek an almost imperceptible inclination of her head. "Bill, if ye don't shut yer gob I'll sew it shut meself," the Captain says, though his tone is casual enough to assume that he often says things of this nature to his rather incorrigible first mate. "Pay him no mind, lass," he says to Wrista, "He's a bit off from all the strange happenin's lately, y'see." As though he isn't always like that. "Ye understand, surely. Poor ol' Bill, our Polly was like a son ter him." He turns back to Del, "Aye, true enough. Though I hear this New Republic ain't lackin' fer those. I ne'er thought ter be workin' fer the likes o' them...always better ter leave the governin' ter those what know how, or at least want ter pretend to. But this plan o' yours sounds like somethin' we could try, s'long as the terms were right." A bit of a grin comes back to his face, "'Twould be a wonder not ter have ter depend on no one else's leisure fer movin' round." All told, this could be fairly bad, depending on what sort of mood the marine happens to be in. Unfortunately for Bill, she is not feeling grouchy, or irritable, or even tolerantly bothered. No, Bill has the misfortune to encounter Wrista while she is in a bright, happy, and most importantly, *playful* mood. While this is at least cause not to fear real bodily harm, quite a number of Marines are of the opinion that the real danger is the Playful Twi'lek, as it usually results in severe ego-bruising. So it may come as little surprise how things turn out. As Bill's arm falls around the twi's shoulders, two things occur. One, her lekku, practiced at avoiding the constant back-slapping contact that marines are so enamored of, swing forward over her shoulders to avoid contact, which is, all things being equal, probably quite expected. The second action, is a barely-audible, steely rasp, and a glimmer of reflected light as the curved short sword, about 18 inches in length or so, exits its spot at her back. the twi's tone is bright sunny, and entirely friendly as she replies. "I'm not sure you'd find me that comfortable an attendant, sir," she chirps pleasantly, nodding to Jack. "I've heard much, worse, think nothing of it," she assures him. The blade, meanwhile, is tapped pointedly against Bill from the low position it ended up in, the flat side giving a nudge to safely, but emphatically, call attention to the Mon Cal's... ah... treasured possessions, let's say. The motion, remarkably, is actually quite polite, if one could hold jewels hostage politely. "..." says Bill as he feels the blade pressing against his bottom parts. This was a saucy one! He likes saucy wenches. But he is not stupid enough to try to pursue this particular in this situation. Slowly, but very carefully, he removes his arm from the twi'lek's shoulders and drops it back to his side. "Thar be no need for none of that," he says apologetically. Then, chuckling awkwardly, he adds, "Bill be only jokin' heh. heh. heh." Taking a slow step away from the blade, the calamari retreats and positions himself on the far side of Salty Jack. The silently-observing Senate Guard just grins, a broad and toothy sort of grin that is plainly visible through the open mask of his helmet. The sword being drawn got the attention of the nearby customs officials - not to mention some of the people in line - but since it seems to be perfectly well in-hand, no one moves to interfere. "If you two will be in the city for a few days, I'll hassle some people for you and find out what we could and couldn't do," Del replies to Jack without missing a beat, smiling lopsidedly as she writes herself a note on her datapad. After a pause, she leans towards Jack again and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial tone. "If they decide they want to meet you before making a decision, you might want to find Bill a babysitter that night," she notes gravely. "I'll take yer advice under consideration," Jack says, nodding as he chuckles a bit under his breath in response to Bill getting exactly what he deserved. He never thought he'd see the day. "I'll be expectin' ter here from ye soon, then." Reaching into his pocket once again, he takes out something that seems idiosyncratically electronic, pressing a button on it which causes something on Del's screen to light up. "Ye c'n reach us there, should ye be unable ter find us, but ye probably won't need to look no further than the nearest tavern. All this standin' in line is thirsty work." He doesn't seem to think that there is anything odd about his apparent familiarity with technology that is, if not the latest, at least not completely outdated. Wrista simply favors Bill with a brilliant sort of grin as he retreats to safety, which might be even more cause to worry than the blade was. She slides the blade back into its sheath silently, leaving it all at that. "Del, we should probably get on to that lunch meeting," she reminds the Senator.
|
