| Girl Problems |
| Summary: | Enter Rayya Siham. |
| Date: | 09/04/2011 |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Ixin's Cantina |
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| Uh, it's cantina-y. |
| IC Date |
Well, Corellia seems to be a stopover for many spacers these days. Iaco landed his shuttle outside. He did so very carefully since he isn't a pilot and really needs to find one. But he managed to get it down, and he's made his way into the cantina. After all, what better place to find down on their luck, employable scoundrels than at a cantina?! "Lomin Ale please." he says softly to the bartender as he arrives at said bar.
"Not him," snarls the Aqualish behind the counter. As evinced by his greasy white apron stained here and there with something green, thick, and slimy. "I chef. Ixin out. You wait." And then he leans back against the bar, making no move toward the half-full bottle of Lomian ale sitting so tantalizingly behind him. Not that the chef is lying, of course: Ixin is nowhere to be seen. He's not checking up on the security droids by the door, their amber eyes wreathed by a haze of golden smoke; he's not cleaning the tables, many of which are still covered with dirty plates; he's not even hitting on the Twi'lek waitresses, now sharing a smoke with a high-tipping patron while their boss is out and about.
"Guy's got girl problems," says the hairy man at Iaco's elbow, his small eyes gleaming with amusement. "I think."
"I'm patient." offers Iaco as he reaches to lay a handful of credits on the countertop. He takes a breath and looks back towards the hairy guy. "I'm patient -and- I tip well." he adds as he rests there, eyes almost dead as he looks back towards the bartender. It's freaky how scary it can be to look into a mundane, unassuming man's eyes and find that there is -nothing- there….
"Might not wanna say that too loud," Hairy Man advises. His voice isn't exactly friendly. "Got street thugs runnin’ wild out there, 'specially at night. CorSec's doing a frell lotta nothin' about it. Far as I care, they shoulda just glassed the lot 'n' put a shoppin' mall on the slums or somethin'. See how they like it then." The last couple of words slur together as he gathers his wits long enough to burp, his not insignificant belly straining against the buttons of his fine silk shirt. Even the Aqualish has to wrinkle his nose at the smell.
As for the bartender? He's still nowhere to be seen - but the raised voices coming from a door leading out back is the first indication that Hairy Man might be right. Though it's hard to make out just what's being said, there's no mistaking the intent of the guttural roar whose sound remains the sole provenance of Pissed Off Male.
"Hey, I can take care of myself… well okay somewhat." offers Iaco. He looks at the Aqualish for a long moment before shaking his head, "So, what do -you- think is going on back there?" he asks as he turns to look towards those doors to the kitchen. "I wonder if they'd object to me going behind the bar and pouring my own drink."
The Aqualish certainly isn't making any move to stop him. His bulky arms still folded across his chest, his large orange throat-flap rising up and down in the cantina's semi-darkness, he stares without blinking at the holoscreen playing re-runs of the latest results from the swoop races on Praexeum B. Ah, the beauty of minimum-wage labor.
But whatever plans Iaco might have had are soon forestalled by the heavy footfalls of Ixin himself. Six feet and five inches of jiggling fat, the massive bartender looks more suited for a few rounds in the ring than he does dispensing delicate cocktails with umbrellas and fake pink flowers. "This is extortion!" he bellows, spittle flying forth from his plump and purpling lips. "It was five hundred creds last week! Now you want to charge twice that? You think Ixin is stupid?"
Silence falls across the room at the sudden public outburst. One of the Twi'lek waitresses disentangles herself from her patron, smoothing out wrinkles in her skirt while doing her best to look nonchalant. And then a wisp of a girl pokes her head out from the storage room, her knobby fingers clenched tightly down on a racer's helmet that's seen better days. "N-n-n-no," she mumbles. "I don't. But I - " Brown eyes stare at the ground with determination, as if by sheer force of will she might cause herself to be swallowed up entirely. "I can't make delivery if I don't get the rate."
Ahh, negotiations. One of Iaco's specialties. Though he does want to know more about what's going on. "I don't mean to intrude sir, but do you honestly think that it's the delivery person's fault -whatever- the rate might be?" He's quite even-sounding, with a businessman's voice and mannerism. "Perhaps you could find a way to communicate with her employer and I could try to help you negotiate?" he asks. Hey, he's usually convincing enough when the need arises.
Oversized Ixin stuffs meaty hands into the pockets of his trousers as a new voice makes itself known. It takes a while for him to locate the speaker, and it takes him a little longer to realize what exactly has been offered. "Fault?" he snaps, his second chin jiggling. "Of course it's her fault. Her and the rest of that filth coming up from the slums. It's them own people that she's scared of. You want to know what her and her bitch sister are trying to pull over Ixin? They want delivery insurance. In case she gets taken on the damn road."
The girl - who flinches backwards when she hears the word 'filth' - says nothing throughout, taking the verbal assault with shoulders slumped and face downcast. But her fingers tighten further on her sky blue helmet, her dirty fingernails scraping off a few flakes paint from its hard plastic shell. Her mouth moves imperceptibly as she says something under her breath.
"What was that?" Ixin snarls, whirling around.
"N-n-nothing!" The girl steps backwards, dark eyes wide. "It's - it's fine. I'll take the five hundred and - and - and go. I've - I've got more stops."
"Well, the question is… is it worth it to -you- to insure your delivery is made? It's not the delivery people who are committing the crimes. CorSec is who oughta be putting a stop to the -need- for such insurance. I tell you what… why don't you just pay the five, and I'll -be- your insurance." he offers. Ever the peacemaker. Besides, folks from the streets are always the -best- intel sources. It'd be good to cultivate an ally who can get Corellian street info eh?
This proposal the bartender will have to consider. Stumping over to the counter, a beefy hand pushing the Aqualish out of the way while he's en route, the clean-shaven man rests his elbows on the bar so he can examine the nondescript little fellow who's so rudely pushed his way into business that doesn't concern him. "So what you're saying is this," he says after a moment's contemplation. "I pay the five. And I get my replacement burner. And that's all?"
The girl opens her mouth as if to protest but quickly thinks better of that plan. Instead, all she allows herself is a single mute nod, though the tight, taut line of her lips communicates much more than anything she could possibly say. She shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another, sidling toward the door.
Heading for the door then, Iaco looks outside and waits there for the delivery girl. After all, this could be considered a business expense. Heck, it could come out of discretionary funds too. So when all is said and done, he's standing outside the door and waiting as he works on his portable computer, checking a few things on the local holonet.
"Hey. You." Ixin grabs a fistful of credits from his pockets, counting them out in his hand before packing them into a small plastic bag that might at one point have been used as a tissue. The package is chucked in the delivery girl's direction with a wide and satisfied grin. "You tell your bishwag sister that next time she tries to cheat me, she gets nothing from me. Zero. You got it?"
The girl has no choice but to drop to one knee so she can grab the bag where it fell. The sound of clinking credit chits is muffled by amused laughter from the hairy fellow at the bar, who snaps his finger in the air to demand a refill. And soon enough the cantina is humming along like it used to, as casual conversations and boisterous good times pick up where they left off. All of which suits her just fine, of course. Not even the security droids notice when she pads out of the room, money secure in the purse buckled to her belt. Only when she's safely out of view does she kick the ground in frustration, scuffed boots slamming into cracked concrete with sudden ferocious force. A few vagrants outside look up, askance, before their attention returns to their dice.
"So…" offers Iaco. "You've got the look of someone seriously upset that I poked my nose in. You think he would've paid in the end if I'd kept my mouth shut?" asks Iaco as he shuts off his monacle, closes down the holo-interface to his computer on his arm, and pushes off of the nearby wall. "So, how much did you lose actually?" he asks as he steps closer. "I might be able to help you get it back either way."
"It - it doesn't matter." As he steps closer, the girl steps backwards, making sure to maintain a safe distance between them. And by 'safe distance' she means about five feet, which should give her enough time to go for the simple knife strapped to her hip in case worst comes to worst. Can't be too careful. "I don't - I'm not - " Wide eyes look behind her to make sure she's not stepping on anything (or anybody) while she edges back to her swoop. The ancient Zephyr-J looks to be about twice her age, with handlebars so old they might fall off after an unlucky bump. "I got to go."
"Why don't you rethink that. We have a business arrangement after all. I'm going to make sure that you get where you need to go after all, and that your delivery gets made. But first…" He glances about the streets and nods as if understanding things a bit. "But first, let me apologize for getting myself involved. I just thought that you were in trouble… so why don't you let me help you recoup your losses?" he asks. "Or at least buy you a bite someplace."
At that, the woman draws herself up to her full height: five feet and four inches in her stocking feet. She's short enough that the one-inch heel on her boots won't make too much of a difference, but for one shining moment a prideful spark seems to light her pallid complexion with unaccustomed fire. "I'm not that kind of girl," she snaps, her hands pulling back her ponytail so she can put on her helmet. Yet even before the strap clicks in place that faint flash of spirit has come and gone. Her shoulders slumped forward, she begins to fiddle with the controls of her swoop, distracted fingers punching in the (wrong) activation code into the console not once or twice but three times. "S-s-sorry," she mumbles, making sure to keep the machine between her and the man. "I - I just - I - don't want trouble."
"What kinda girl?" asks Iaco. "I was offering to buy you a meal to make it up for poking my nose in. I'm just -trying- to help out, but if you want me to get more street-talky, I can go with that too. I cost you money, and you oughta at least -try- to make it up, right? Tell you what… I'll be on the tarmac by the Bellatrix with the five hundred you lost… just to entice you to listen to what I have to say. Nothing promiscuous needs to be done. Just talk." he offers as he turns towards the starport. "Besides, it won't cost -you- anything, will it?"
Rayya stuffs her hands in her pockets, dislodging her turquoise sweater in the process. She does her best to catch it before it hits the ground, but of course she doesn't manage that in time. Not that more dirt will do much damage to it, all things considered. And as she ties it back around her waist she bites down on her lower lip. Thinking hard. But of course she can reach only one logical conclusion. Free money has that effect on people. "We - we can talk right here," she calls out. A place she knows, and the place where her refurbished swoop is parked.
"Well, I was thinking of offering a business arrangement really." offers Iaco. "You get around on corellia. You've got your ear to the ground. I'm sure that there's not a lot that goes on around here that you're unaware of. People tend to overlook folks who don't stand out, and you blend in quite well. That's why I wanted to talk to you… I would happily pay for information on events going on.. things you might hear about from locals, spacers, whomever. You've got the mannerisms of someone that people will just talk around…. so I wanted to use that." He's honest at least.
"Um." That's a lot to process all at once. Rayya rests her elbows on her swoop's padded seat, the pressure from which causes its brittle leather cover to creak under the strain. A few bits of dried synthfoam fall to the ground, sprinkling the cracked asphalt with pale yellow flakes. "A-Are - " The girl gulps down a few breaths to try and control her stammer. It doesn't work. "Are y-you with CorSec?"
"Nope. I can't tell you who I -am- with unless you want to actually involve yourself in things. But.. I'm not with anyone who enforces any rules or laws on Corellia. I am just a man who would buy information, and who would happily help out someone who works hard to provide me with that information." offers Iaco. He doesn't bother smiling at this point… after all, he's read you a bit, and knows that you likely wouldn't want to be -pressured- or smiled at. It's all business now, and that's how he thinks you'll appreciate it.
Rayya's never been off-world, and the range of possibilities she has to draw upon is circumscribed by what she knows - which extends from one end of Coronet City to the other. It shouldn't come as any surprise, then, that she hears 'not with anyone who enforces any rules or laws on Corellia' and shifts gears to the only other possibility that comes to mind. Judging from the stricken expression on her pale features, 'Yes I'm with CorSec' would probably have been the better answer.
Indeed, the girl lets out a little gasp as she starts making another effort to start up the engine on her swoop. This time she succeeds, and her already soft voice is soon drowned out by the trademark crack-crack-ROAR of a repulsor engine howling to life. She leaps onto the seat with surprising agility, digging her boots into the Zephyr's footrests while her ponytail is wafted behind her by a blast of sooty exhaust.
Of course, Iaco said he wasn't with the Corsec folks… was to make her feel -more- comfortable, not less. But as she starts to drive off, he shakes his head. Another opportunity pissed away. He just stands there and watches you depart. "Well, maybe you'll see her again -someday-." he offers himself.
"Tough luck, brother," calls a bum from the alley by the cantina, his bearded face covered with a faint sheen of sweat. Ruddy cheeks widen in a parody of a smile, revealing uneven teeth 'fixed' here and there with a dentist's silver. "Hey, I know. You - " His creaky voice breaks into a hopeful, grating laugh. "You give me five hundred creds and I'll tell you whatever you need, gang or no gang."
"Only thing you know is what bars'll let you get pissed out back," says one of his friends, her balled fist sending him staggering backwards on the ground. "'Sides, you don't have her biiig brown eyyyyes." The unkempt woman emphasizes each word with a stab of her pointed nails, cackling in amusement as she rolls the dice.
As for the owner of those big brown eyes? Rayya Siham is long gone, speeding down the twisting alleys of Coronet City with abandon. Only when she's a full ten blocks away does she think to lower the visor to protect her face from the pebbles and dust - and it'll be ten more blocks before she dares slow down. Skittish to a fault, this one. And while her heart hammers in her chest she might see a plume of smoke rising from the flue of Ixin's Cantina, burning a bright mocking blue in the Corellian night.
